Bones vs. Slugs

Imagine there is a field with eighty bones in it. A hundred dogs are sent out to get those bones. Most dogs go away happy, most dogs get a bone – some may even get two. The unhappy dogs are the ones that aren’t very good at sniffing out and digging up bones: if there had been a hundred bones in the field they still would have struggled. Poor bastards.

Now, imagine that instead of eighty bones in the field there are just twenty. And instead of there being a hundred dogs, there are two hundred. Starts to become a problem, doesn’t it? And not only that, but there are more dogs on the way. Dogs that have been studying bone collecting at university for three years. Fresh, hungry dogs that haven’t spent the last six years bone hunting. Dogs that are finishing up their NCTJs.

At one point I thought I was going to become King Bonehunter. Now I’m not so sure. Now I sit at the side of the field with the slugs smoking roll-ups and I think, You know what, these bones can go fuck themselves.

A bone, earlier.

Later, I go to see my GP.

“This may sound unusual,” I tell him, “but for the last fourteen months I’ve had the sound of an air-conditioning unit in my head.”

“That doesn’t sound unusual at all,” he says, as if every other person who comes in here is half-man half-air-conditioning unit.

“Really? Because it feels unusual saying it.”

I’m not sure my doctor is a doctor; he looks more like a cleaner.

“I think it could be stress-related,” I say, wanting to tell him about the bones.

“Are you under much stress at the moment?”

“Yes.”

“It could be stress-related.”

Wow, I think, he’s good. No wonder he’s got so many bones. He’s probably got bones coming out of his ears.

“Yes. In fact, you referred me to a cognitive behavioural therapist a few years ago.”

“And how did you find it?”

“It was excellent.”

“Well, take this leaflet…”

I take the cloying, over-friendly leaflet and begin to stumble out.

“The toilets could do with a mop,” I say, and I’m gone.

An ear bone, earlier.

Later I decide (not for the first time) to take to my bed. I’ll stay in bed forever, I think. No-one can stop me, I think. And if someone did try to stop me then they would probably try and help me too. That would be good. I’m buoyed until I realise that I don’t have a bed. Homelessness is not as glamorous as you might think.

At night I walk around in the rain with my shirt off drinking whisky. The slugs are illuminated by artificial light against the brilliant white wall. I swig whisky in the rain with my shirt off. The slugs are oily and black and sinister and marvellous.

“Hi again slugs,” I say. “I’m ready to join you now.”

“MMMMURRRGGGHHHHH,” go the slugs.

“That’s right. I’m going to get all oily and black and sinister and marvellous and bed down with you. I’ve got a sleeping bag that I’m going to dip in tar. Won’t that be something?”

Oh, the breakdown is going splendidly thanks. You heard about the slugs, yes? Good. And the bones – the fucking bones? I’m sort of repeating your comment, but you sort of repeated my post so we’re square. But I’m reading your soon-to-be-published (on kindle) novel so you owe me one. Once I’ve read it. Which I definitely will.

We get tiger slugs out here, they kick ass. Fucked up my hostas. Bastards.
Relieved that you are still present among us. Listen to Dr Mya – I prescribe a whole month in bed – July is hugely overrated.
Take care.
Mya x

One of my all time fav songs is Bomfunk mc ‘Freestyler’ so I have beeen inspired to write a book about an olympiad swimmer – yet none of them will reply to my emails, fucking chlorine – obvioulsy affects their brains.

I’ve read this three times now over the last few days and it’s got better every time. Update more often. Or write a book. Yes. Write a book about you. Or, do what some internet funnyists do and compile your site, while adding a few new ones in so you can slap a huge ‘with unread material’ sticker on it. Then, you could pay people to fetch you bones.

I AM writing a PTW book, Rich Tea, and I WAS planning on just collating a load of these whimsical-fake-self-deprecating-bullshit posts and putting on the cover “With Added College Dog!”. Still might, in fact. You’ll buy a copy won’t you?
Also, the first line of your first comment cheered me up considerably. Ta.

A man goes to the doctor
“Doctor, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, my penis has shriveled up to the size of a pea”
“Ahh, son, it looks like you have pitchitis”
“How did it get that name?”
“After some dickhead who thought he could pitch the world”
“What a twat”
“Tell me about it”